The kettle whistles, cutting through the silence.
Outside, the forest steams, silver fog lifting off the trees.
Inside, something in me starts thawing that I hadn’t realized was frozen.
I pour her a mug of coffee, pushing it across the counter to her. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Cream, please.”
I pour until the black brew blossoms, cloudy swirls that settle into a light brown shade. The color of her skin.
“Thank you,” she smiles warm but groggy.
“Sleep okay?”
“Like a baby.”
Those three words knock something loose in my chest. I grimace, feeling an unaccustomed ache.
Her dainty fingers grip the mug. “So, I was thinking,” she says. “About today’s cabin repairs. It was kind of you to offer. But if you’re not feeling it, I can call someone.” She walks toward the hearth where a new fire burns. “It looks like you stay busy enough as it is. Don’t need my problems on top of it.”
But I don’t want someone else doing this for her. I want to be the one. I shake my head, voice gruff. “Last thing I need are more strangers out here. I’ve got it.”
“But are you sure?” she asks, eyes wide.
I cross my arms over my chest, narrowing my gaze. “Couldn’t be more sure.”
She sits, stares into her steaming cup of coffee. “Thank you.”
I grunt, look away. Don’t want my face to show what my heart’s feeling, a contented glow.
“Why the Wheeler cabin?” I ask, side-eying her.
She shrugs. “Long story.”
I pull eggs from the ceramic bowl on the counter, crack a few into the skillet where butter crackles.
“Wait, you don’t refrigerate your eggs?” she asks, head bobbing between me and the appliance.
“No need until you wash them.”
Her face scrunches. “They’re not washed? But don’t they come out of a chicken’s butt?” She looks at me like I’m missing a cog.
I laugh, can’t help it. The sound booms through the quiet cabin. Can’t remember the last time I heard it. “Yep.”
She waits, creases in her forehead deepening.
“Eggs come with a natural—” I search for the right word, tongue feeling tired thanks to so much talking. “Membrane. Protects them from going bad.”
“Oh,” she says, opening her phone. Her fingers fly.
I grip the spatula, scrambling the eggs as butter crackles. “Texting someone?”
“No signal up here. Taking notes … for my cabin challenge. I need all the homesteading tips I can get, especially since my subject hates cameras.”
I tug at my beard. “Still do.”
“Can’t I just get one picture of you? To prove to the world you exist?”
